


Marks Left Behind

by Luckyfirerabbit



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Coping, Established Relationship, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Setting, discussion of past trauma, non-explicit mentions of sex, soft gay shit, stimming -I guess?, they're married your honor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 08:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30052884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luckyfirerabbit/pseuds/Luckyfirerabbit
Summary: (Based on another AU that follows the Shatranj continuity, see notes for full context.)Striga has trouble sleeping at times when her mind can't distinguish between dreams and reality, but Morana is there to help, as always.
Relationships: Morana/Striga (Castlevania)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 6





	Marks Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> I call this AU the "Midnight Sons", and it's based on this premise I wrote some months ago when I was first getting into shipping this couple. You can read the basic synopsis for this AU here: https://luckyfirerabbit.tumblr.com/post/625625463778426880/angsty-strigana-au
> 
> I don't go into great detail with much of it here, just enough to set the stage, and I might write more if there's enough interest. Emphasis on might. In any case, thanks for stopping by.

She mentally counts the beating of her own heart until she can be certain she is awake. Nightmares make her heart race, her racing heart stirred her out of sleep, but it isn't enough on its own for her mind to accept what reality is.

Striga's mind has always been a strange sort of puzzle, but after the box _-eighty_ _ **fucking**_ _years_ - it had become a hot fucking mess. A mess she has only just been able to arrange into various piles that resemble something she might be able to navigate and sort through. Her time in the box had significantly altered her perception of reality, and for weeks after being released it had been almost impossible to distinguish between being asleep or awake. Dormancy Syndrome it was called, and that, coupled with complex layers of other trauma, made a unique disaster of her mind.

It had gotten better, with work and time, but waking too suddenly still posed its own sort of problems.

Striga keeps focus on her heart and keeps her eyes closed; keeping them shut stopped her brain from panicking over what was real and what wasn't. Wholly conscious of being awake allowed her to follow the steps to ground herself. One at a time. Easy does it.

Striga takes a slow, quiet breath through her nose. She acknowledges the neutral scent of the air, what it always smells like and not any one thing. Then she takes another, trying to pick apart at least some of the individual elements; lingering detergent in the linens, and almost too faint traces of jasmine.

_Jasmine, jasmine, jasmine..._

Her brain latches onto the scent like a bear trap, her consciousness solidifying into steely teeth around it. It's a scent she could never ignore, not after so long.

Striga then focuses on what she hears, trying to find anything at all. It's so still in here it's hard to do, and then she remembers she doesn't need to breathe and neither does her wife. Then she curls her fingers, honing in on the whisper of friction, skin against soft fabric. The little motion tethers her mind further, giving herself something concrete, something to feel.

_Something to feel...feel...feel...I need to feel..._

Striga's heart rate spikes and she tenses, still keeping her eyes firmly shut. Her ribs push upward an inch or two before abruptly stopping, a catch that Striga gently pushes herself through as she forces down the initial, dragging sense of panic. She fully inflates her lungs, the stretch in her muscles giving her a certain relief.

_Stretch. Spread out. Take up space._

Things she couldn't do in the box. Things she always had a strange, subconscious itch to do at all times these days. Like the issues with perception, it had improved, but...

Striga pulls her legs up in a steady, measured way, her brain again latching hungrily onto the stimulus of fabric running over her skin, beneath her feet, the sound, the give of the mattress as she shifts. _Oooh, that feels good._ Then she's sliding her big hands, fingers splayed, up and over her own thighs to cap her knees, gently grasping and enjoying the flex of her own muscles as she does. For a moment she stays just like that, eyes still closed, chest moving steadily with breaths she doesn't need but wants to take.

The feel of her spine gently bending as her thighs draw a bit further up, a similar sensation in her knees, it's a refreshing sort of thing that steadies her a little more.

"...My love?"

Striga stills, not necessarily startled but her brain does seem to skip over the soft, raspy whisper she hadn't been looking for.

"Are you awake?"

Striga can't make her mouth work right, so she just makes a noise, an unsteady hum that she expects her wife to understand.

"A nightmare?" Morana asks, a gentle caution in the question. Always so gentle.

Striga rolls her head against the pillow, knowing she's facing her wife though she still won't open her eyes. Then she makes another sound of confirmation, this one sounding a little tighter and in the throat.

"Can I help or...should I wait?"

The sound of Morana's voice feels good in Striga's head, but it is toeing a line very closely. If her words, her tone were any softer, it would have made Striga start spiraling. Because she was always so soft in Striga's dreams, the same dreams she couldn't discern from reality, but she's almost there, almost back together.

Striga doesn't answer immediately, but takes another measured breath and stretches out, arms above her head until they touch the headboard and back bowing upward. Then she rolls onto her side to face Morana -more so to remind her body that it was able to do it, had the space to. There she settles, still for a few beats of her steadily pulsing heart.

"...Will you hold me?" the words drag, unsteady and almost silent, but Striga gets them out.

"Always, dear."

This is an old, well practiced arrangement, since before they were married some...six centuries ago, so the movements come without hesitation. Morana pushes herself a little higher onto her stack of big, fat pillows, propping herself up on her side and leaving room for Striga to push one powerful arm beneath her and curl it around her waist. That other arm drapes over her ribs and lines Morana's spine, allowing Striga to pull them flush together. Morana's arms carefully cross over Striga's upper back, one lining her broad shoulders and her other hand coming to rest at the back of Striga's head, a gesture of reassurance and security. Morana remains still, waiting for Striga to settle, for the quick and heated breaths against her collarbones to ease.

Now Striga is surrounded by the scent of jasmine and she readily takes it in by the lungful. She's gently curling her fingers, rhythmically kneading Morana's supple flesh, digging for whatever comfort she might find there. She feels soft skin against her face and tips her chin, finding it with her lips to give her mouth something to do -another step, another tether- and giving a timid, child-like whimper.

Striga knows she is safe here, that this is all real, but making her mind hold onto that, to fully accept it, feels _so_ difficult. Like she's the fish everyone asks to climb a tree, but all she can do is lay at the trunk and suffocate.

"Would it help if I talk to you?" Morana puts the slightest pressure of her cheek to the top of Striga's head, simply for the added physical touch.

"M-maybe." Striga exhales. "Just...you know what not to say."

She does, the chiefest of which being any form of the phrase _wake up_. Striga had told her that whenever she had dreamed of Morana -which had been constantly- she always begged Striga to wake up. It became just another level of trauma.

"Can you open your eyes?"

"Not yet."

A hum of understanding punctuated with a light kiss to sable tresses is enough to make Striga relax a little further, muscles unwinding. With a testing sort of care, Morana cards her fingers through Striga's hair, ready to stop if she wishes, somewhat relieved when she allows it. Then she tries her talons at her scalp with a light scratch, smiling to herself when Striga rumbles in a very familiar, comfortable way.

Morana starts with little, simple things. "It's still daylight outside, but it looks overcast." the light peeking around the blackout curtains over the windows is subdued, gray. "I think I heard thunder earlier."

The static in Striga's head is starting to take shape, forming around the echo of Morana's words, letting her attention soften. Instead of fighting to keep certain things out, she's letting something else in, shoving the sharp edges down, down, until they're tucked away under Striga's distant memory of a daytime storm. That turns into the memory of conjuring her first storm, too long ago to remember exactly when, and the wonder she felt watching clouds swirl overhead by her will. She remembers the rain and wind being strong enough to feel like the pull of gravity, and how it made her feel like a god.

"Do you want to talk about the dream?"

"No." Striga is quick to say. She feels another kiss atop her head.

Morana knows it's a rare occurrence, but she tries on the off chance that she does, that it might help. Striga had gotten better at talking, but it's still very touch and go.

"Do you," Striga starts unsteadily, "do you remember our trip to the Giant's Causeway?"

"I do." though it was nearly three-hundred years ago. "It rained the whole week."

"But...do you remember the storm over the sea?"

"How could I forget?" her smile is audible. "It was one of the biggest storms I had ever seen."

"You made such a fuss about getting wet." Striga unconsciously grins against Morana's throat, deciding to keep it when she becomes aware of it. "But I told you it would be worth it. And it was, wasn't it?"

"Absolutely." the word spools out of her mouth, smooth and velvety, a word to be felt as much as heard. "I think I fell in love with you all over again, that night."

"Hmm." Striga seems to settle deeper into her wife's embrace, if it was even possible. "I think I did too."

They had stood together out on the honeycomb of stones of the causeway, as close to the roiling waves as they dared, watching with a certain delight as streaks of lightning lit up the midnight sea in flashing silver and sable. As breathtaking as the whole scene was, what burned the moment in Morana's memory was when Striga took her hand and gave a daring sort of look. "Take it." She had said. "Use me and wield the storm."

For all the languages she knew, Morana still could not properly articulate just what it felt like to harness all that raw power, to feel the _pulse_ of the storm stir her dead heart, the whipping winds of the squall filling her lungs, and the sparking of lightning in her mind where it arcs at a mere thought. It had left her overwhelmed in a beautiful way, and she truly believed that her love for Striga had somehow been renewed, even impossibly amplified by the experience.

Striga remembers it very vividly; the way Morana's eyes flashed as lightning cut the darkness, the raw intrigue in her face. She remembers the pressure of her eager hand and the tingling, subtle burn of magic flowing between them. She had watched and felt Morana bring the storm to heel, the rain ebbing and flowing in intensity like the sea, the clouds spiraling over them much like the first time Striga had ever conjured them. The way the wind tossed Morana's hair is something Striga prayed she would never forget.

When Morana had her fill, appearing tipsy with power, she stumbled into Striga's arms, burying her face in her chest to gather herself back together and laugh with an awestruck breathlessness. Then Morana had hungrily kissed her, letting Striga feel everything she didn't have the wherewithal to describe.

The only word Striga had ever found to properly describe that night was _magical_ , as cliche as it may sound. That didn't really matter, not nearly as much as Striga's desire to just _squeeze_ her wife until she physically can't.

Morana makes a comfortable sigh of a sound, having always loved this pressure. "May I kiss you, love?" She doesn't sense that Striga will deny her, but in moments like these, Morana is always keen to ask first.

Striga is shifting in Morana's arms before giving a breathy " _Yes_."

She's ready for it, her nerves have grown accustomed to the contact and so has her mind, it knows this is real because it was rarely ever a part of her dreams. In the box, Striga usually dreamed of the Thirties, the decade when everything started going belly up on a global scale. She dreamed of the house she and the Sisters had in Graz, probably one of Striga's personal favorites of all the places they had lived _-the one those bastards burned down_. And, of course, she dreamed of Morana, especially after her mind finally slipped into a state of deep hibernation, the eighty year sleep that had temporarily withered her body and even now left her once flawlessly black hair streaked with ribbons of gray and white.

But Striga never dreamed of kissing her or making love, something she had always thought strange, although she is grateful for it, considering the mess her dreams could make of her now. This, the physical touch, is still intact as something _good_ , something Striga could still count on to help her find her way back. Just like reminiscing of almost anything or any time else, those were things Striga knew were irrevocably _real_. Things she doesn't just mentally, but _physically_ remember.

Kissing...yes, kissing is real. Morana's touch is real, and Striga's brain welcomes the soft pressure of her dainty hands framing her face as their lips slide gently together. But she still isn't ready to open her eyes; seeing Morana in bed like this, no, that could still be a dream. It had happened countless times, and she couldn't trust herself to believe it by her eyes.

She wishes it didn't have to be this way, wishes she didn't have to split this moment between her wife and her own hurt. It's not fair, god damn it - _ it isn't  _ _ **fucking** _ -

"Shh," Morana hushes against her mouth, having heard the pitch in Striga's pulse and felt the tension of anger in her face. "It's all right. Let it go, try to relax."

Striga's whole body  _ cringes _ , then she's burrowing into Morana's neck like she's trying to hide and she's pulling her embrace impossibly tighter.

"It's all right." She says again, carefully sifting her hand through Striga's hair, stroking. "You are not alone. I'm here."

_ Yes, she's here.  _ I  _ am here. I am  _ home _ , and this is  _ real _. _ And like a watch spring wound too tightly, Striga feels the tension ease little by little, but never fast enough.

"Perhaps a bath would help?"

"...Y-yes, I think so." Truth be told, if she still had one, Striga would happily sell her soul for a hot bath at  _ any _ given time.

Morana smiles to herself. "Should I come back for you when-,"

"Take me with you."

Morana simply nods and makes careful movements to navigate them both out from under the covers, not wishing to draw too far out of Striga's reach. She manages to keep at least one of those big hands on her the entire time, comfortable in its nervous grip on her wrist until they're both standing beside the bed. Then she carefully pulls, eventually coaxing Striga's hand into hers to lead her by.

Striga notes all the things going on around her that she cannot see as she easily, reflexively follows Morana's guidance; the feel of the carpet beneath her feet, the air moving around her, the sounds of moving bodies that subtly change as they walk into the adjacent bathroom. Then the carpet becomes tile that is unexpectedly cold and makes her breath hiss between her teeth.

_ This...these are all real things. Not box things.  _ Real things _. _

Her mantra pauses when her body does, in the same instant she feels Morana's free hand smoothing against her chest to stop her.

"Sit." She says softly, and Striga responds.

Striga's free hand reaches down, feeling for whatever was waiting beneath her to find more tile. It's the step at the edge of the tub, and her heart unclenches from its unconscious tension. She lets her fingertips pull at the smooth surface for a moment, stimulus she didn't realize her brain was hungry for. Then she jumps at the sound of running water right behind her.

"Sorry, love." Morana is quick to apologize, to take her wife's hand again and reassure her.

"I'm all right, it wasn't that bad." Running water isn't one of those sudden sounds that make her feel anything in particular, it wasn't connected to anything harmful like so many others. Striga actually finds a little comfort in it, a thunderous sort of white noise that her mind recognizes as a signal that something good is coming. "Could we light the candles?"

"Of course. Do you wish to, or...?"

Striga knows what she's really asking, and can't resist a little smirk as she squeezes her wife's smaller hand. "You may, if you like."

It isn't long before Striga feels a gentle coaxing of the magic inside of her, a pull she easily recognizes and doesn't resist. A surge of heat passes between their hands, and in a few seconds, Striga is aware of the subtle change in the darkness through her eyelids. It's enough to make her want to try and open her eyes again.

It's all a blur at first, a slit of amber light and unfocused shapes. Striga keeps her eyes down, feeling safe in seeing something neutral like the floor. A little more and she can make out the faint grid of the tiles beneath her feet, the grout lines almost too thin to see. Then her focus is tight to the warm, flickering light of the candles, immediately drawing her gaze to the nearest flame. It's sitting by the sink, reflected in the mirror, as is Morana who meets her gaze in glass as if she had anticipated it.

This is safer for the time being, looking at Morana like this is too little like a dream to stir confusion, and it is no less soothing to see her at all, and to acknowledge the almost welcoming smile she casts in the glow of the candles. Striga raises Morana's hand to her mouth and kisses the knuckles, eyes dipping closed again but only for a moment to get the most out of the feeling of her lips against Morana's smooth skin.

Morana turns to face her, looking down but not meeting her eyes directly. "Do you wish to be alone, or-,"

Striga pulls away only to press the back of Morana's hand against her cheek, leaning into it. "No, no, please stay."

Morana hums, pleased and acknowledging. Letting Striga keep hold of her hand, Morana leans forward to use the other to shut off the water, leaving the room quiet again save for a few final drips of water. Her heart clenches at the little whimper Striga makes when she carefully pulls her hand away, but knows it's necessary for her to take off her nightgown. She thinks it promising when Striga's chin dips, her eyes following the fall of fabric to where it pools at their feet.

With a loud exhale Striga wraps her arms about Morana's thighs and presses into her belly, mouth open to kiss and lave at the skin there. This isn't to stir anything, to chase, but to bolster and reinforce her sense of reality. Although taking two handfuls of Morana's ass is  _ entirely _ selfish. Striga purrs into her wife's navel at soothing talons in her hair, and simply rests her forehead there, enjoying the touch and the familiar motions of Morana gathering up her hair to twist into that ever mystifying bun that she always does. She takes in Morana's scent, jasmine and a touch smoke and a hint of what is most likely reflexive arousal.

Always so responsive, Morana. Even after eighty years apart, when they had to all but start over again. Of all the things that had changed during Striga's long sleep, the joy of Morana's love not having been one of those things was indescribable.

"Come now, into the water with you."

Striga nods once and, considering she rarely wears clothing to sleep in, it's a simple matter of turning around and easing herself into the hot water. She rumbles loudly, contentedly, splashing some against her face before settling against the far rim of the spacious tub. Her muscular arms stretch and drape along the rim, she looks relaxed and open, maybe even waiting, but she still won't look her wife in the eye.

Morana sees this, recognizes it, and doesn't try to force it. She keeps her attention on her feet as she steps into the tub, then sinks to her knees. She makes a curious sound in her throat, like a chirp that Striga recognizes as a wordless request for closeness, which she readily grants. Striga feels significantly grounded, almost normal - _ one step at a time. Easy does it. _ \- so it's much easier to let Morana in now. Morana turns her back and rests against Striga's chest and in her lap, nestling in like she belongs there, feeling it as well when those big arms circle her waist and those pale hands slip underneath her smaller, darker ones. Morana takes one by the wrist, gently lifting Striga's arm up and across her chest, all of their fingers lacing together. Striga curls against her back, the sharp edge of her jaw on Morana's shoulder as she kisses below Morana's ear.

"Is this helping?"

"It is, thank you." her embrace tightens, and she gives Morana's neck another kiss. "Thank you so much. Your patience for me is endless."

"Just as my love for you is endless." She chances a lilt of her head, a little nudge against Striga's. It's quiet for a moment, then Morana feels that body behind her expand and contract with measured breath.

"You deserve better than to coddle me the rest of our eternity together."

"I am not coddling you." there's a certain firmness to Morana's answer, an edge. "There are times when you need help to navigate these things, and I do it happily."

"I should be able to do this myself." Striga grumbles. "I'm a grown fucking woman."

"Yes, a grown fucking woman who does her best on her own until she can't. Even  _ you _ can only take so much. There's no shame in it, and I'll not see you manufacturing it for yourself."

"...My best doesn't feel like enough." Striga admits reluctantly. "Nights like these...it feels meaningless."

"Oh, my dear," it's a soft lamentation in congress with her fingers curling tighter between Striga's. "It isn't meaningless. Perhaps this is too much at times, more than you can manage, but it doesn't undo all the work you have put in to get this far. You know that."

"Yes. I do. But...it is hard to grasp."

"I know."

An unspoken but very present tension settles in the air, something they've felt before and don't worry much over. Morana's trying to think of what to say while Striga is wondering what she really wants or needs to hear. In the end they simply let the silence stay, as sometimes it must, and hold onto one another.

But Morana keeps thinking, it's what she does best, after all. It's as reflexive as breathing had once been, so there really is no helping it. Her brain buzzes along countless thoughts and lines of reasoning, focusing and refocusing on the matter at hand from a number of different angles. She dips her chin and sighs quietly, pressing her lips to Striga's hand that rests near her shoulder. She lingers there, ruminating on the texture of her wife's skin under her lips when the thoughts begin to crowd for her attention. That's when she gives up on thinking altogether, realizing there isn't much to make of this for the time being. Morana pulls Striga's hand from her shoulder though still holds onto it, holds its weight in her own as she turns them both up to appear to study Striga's palm. Her palm, her fingertips, the length and breadth of it all...

Then her eyes dip passed Striga's wrist and her heart clenches uncomfortably at the solid black tattoo etched into the meat of Striga's forearm. She remembers a time when she had never heard of or even seen the symbol of a stylized sun, just as she remembers the time when she obsessed over it, chased it for  _ decades _ after learning of its existence because it was the only clue to Striga's disappearance. Morana feels herself scowling at it, seething quietly. But then...

"Remind me," she says softly, wanting to be sure she had Striga's attention before continuing. There's a curt hum against her neck. "You have mentioned possibly covering this, haven't you?"

"Hmm? Oh," Striga's heart clenches for all of a second, thoughts linking together. "Yes, I did say that."

"Have you given it any more thought?"

"Not recently. Why?"

"Perhaps you should." Morana slowly turns her head, easing her forehead against Striga's temple. "Maybe it's time."

"How so?"

"You said you're having difficulty in really accepting your progress. Maybe this is what you need; you need something to show for it, something tangible, a real reminder of how far you've come."

"Covering it up doesn't make it go away." Because she's tried that. She can't remember the last time she wore short sleeves, and just glancing at her left arm was enough to give her mind a sharp jolt of recollection.

"But must you stare it in the face forever? Of course you will know it's there, but let it be underneath something better, something beautiful."

It's quiet again, though the dangling tension has eased a little.

"...Where would I even begin?"

"Well, you  _ could _ start by realizing you don't have to do it all yourself."

"I can't expect you to do everything."

"And I'm not offering to, my wish is to  _ help _ ."

"Do you mean to help by being so sassy?"

"Not initially, unless it's working?" She hears Striga grumble in feigned exasperation, and gives her a playfully light kiss on the cheek. "But I  _ am _ being serious."

"I know, and...maybe you're right." It makes sense, Striga thinks.

It's been months, and since she got out of the box, Striga felt like her life had been in a constant state of flux in one way or another. But, as the external changes and the culture shock settled down into something like normal, the internal changes did the same at a significantly slower rate. She remembers a recurring, distinct feeling of having to stop and let her brain catch up to everything else. Something that, at its worst, could take days. When it resolved, it still didn't feel quite real because nothing had really changed, nothing that she could measure.

But this...Morana was right. This particular wound had aired out enough. "So what do you propose we do? I'm assuming that you're suggesting another tattoo,"

"I am." Morana nods once. "I was hoping...you could let me design one for you."

Striga smiles, brow cocked unevenly. "Weren't you just dragging me about doing things by myself?"

"I would be doing so  _ with your input _ , of course. We could discuss it further tonight, if you felt up to it." she adds, sounding like she had meant to say it from the start and that it wasn't an afterthought. "But, could I?"

Striga takes a breath, surprised at the feeling of settling deeper into herself. It's nice. "It would be foolish to turn away your talent."

"Though I would respect it if you did."

"I know. It is but one of the many things I love about you." Striga kisses her neck and leans into her. "...Would you look at me?"

"You're sure?"

Striga makes a small sound of confirmation, and then gently raises her hand to hook a finger around Morana's chin, to encourage her to turn. At first Striga focuses on her lips, the pale pinkness of them and the way they slightly catch the light. She has to make a conscious effort to raise her gaze, finally meeting her wife's eyes. Her ribs clench briefly, then loose when she doesn't find the look she always expects.

Morana had always been soft and beckoning in her dreams. Gently begging - _wake up, my love. Please. Wake up and come home. Come back to me._ - but Striga doesn't find that now, and part of her is grateful in a way she'll never say out loud. There is softness, yes, but Striga knows there always will be, for her. But Morana's eyes are curious, not begging, they're anticipating and bright and flashing with flecks of gold from the candles. Those slitted, pitch pupils widen at meeting hers, and that encourages Striga to pull her in for a kiss. Morana gives the smallest whimper, a sated sound.

_ You're real. Yes. So very real _ .

They reluctantly part, but not so far that they cannot rest their foreheads together, sharing an unnecessary breath. This is where the conversation unconsciously dies, the two of them now more than content to simply see one another, be seen, and to soothe each other with touch and soft sounds that are more intent than anything. But they understand it all the same.

Striga will carry Morana back to their bed when the time comes, as if to thank her for her caring guidance earlier, and tenderly tucks her in. Crawling in and settling close, Striga draws her up, tugging at Morana's shoulder until she rolls to face her. One big hand finds the small of Morana's back and fans wide, pulling them flush, hips to hips.

"I want to hear those beautiful sounds." Striga purrs hotly against her wife's parted lips. "The ones you only make for me."

Morana simply yields, and does so happily. And Striga listens intently, treating those keening mewls and tremulous sighs as the sweetest of lullabies to eventually pull her down into the soundest sleep she has had in many,  _ many _ days.

Author's Note: There's more to this bit, but I felt like it would just be droning on after this. It's a lot of stuff that adds to this particular AU, and I just don't feel up to that kind of commitment right now. Maybe, if enough people show interest, I will do the thing, but that is not today. Thanks for reading and I appreciate you taking the time. Take care!


End file.
